The Reign: Carry On
by CarpeImperium
Summary: This is one of my ongoing worksinprogress. It chronicles the story of Bravo Squad, an Imperial Commando team composed of aliens. It's a study of unlikely characters in unlikely situations, mainly focusing on the leader, Captain Durlock Acibor.
1. Chapter 1

Brigadier General Xela Atsoc  
3 Imperial Centre: Imperial Army High Command  
Suite 179  
26868 G.C.  
1026 R.R.  
24 R.G.C.  
1400 Hours Imperial Centre Time

I've known Durlock Acibor since there wasn't an RGC date at the top of this journal, and it's a wonder I've gotten where I am today because of it. All the drill sergeants and junior officers in the Galaxy tell you that the top command ranks are reserved for only the most fanatical soldiers, unfailingly loyal to every doctrine of the New Order. Sure, I buy most of it, I wouldn't have all the colorful boxes and shiny cylinders on my uniform if I didn't; but all the time I've spent, all the discussions I've had, and all the drunken rampages I've participated in with Dur taught me that one of the Emperor's doctrines is a bit faulty: there isn't a way in the universe that all humans are superior to aliens. No way. No how.

I'll tell you, there's plenty of piece-of-shit humans out there who aren't fit to wipe Durlock's boots, or even Hiska's for that matter. Maybe Rhykis though, sometimes I wonder if that guy has a soul. The Galaxy owes all of those guys a thousand times over, but they'll never know it because of the New Order's silly rules. Funny thing is that I can hear Dur's voice in my head right now, accent and all, telling me: "It's be'er off that way, Xela, I don' wanna be fendin' off fans with a stick left an' roight." Sometimes I wonder if he should be a General and I should be in his shoes, but then I start to hear his voice all over again telling me why things are fine just the way they are.

The chain of command is a fickle mistress. I get the orders from Imperial Army High Command, then I pass them along to Durlock, and finally he delivers them right to "the lads." When one looks at it that way, it's clear that our military efficiency is more like a complicated, deadly game where the purpose is to screw up the message; we're lucky that what started out as "Crush the Rebels" didn't turn into "Dust the pebbles.

It all goes back to the men and women all up and down the chain that makes it work so effectively. War is hell, sure, but it'd be a shitload worse if it wasn't for the devoted people who fight it. From Private Olaf Dowding, dug into a trench on Clak'dor VII all the way up to Emperor Palpatine himself, they all fight to make the Galaxy a better place. Without them, there would be nothing but darkness.

Some of my colleagues here at High Command don't see that. Several of them look at the soldiers on the battlefield as statistics, and believe in the hateful doctrine of "acceptable loss." All too often, I have to remind some of my fellow generals that there is _no_ margin of "acceptable casualties" in this war, in _any_ war. The only tolerable casualties are enemy casualties. Each of those men, who appear as nothing but blips on a battlefield map here on Coruscant, are lives with families, friends, and histories; personally, I want to send them all back to those things.

I think the reason for my confrontation with my colleagues here is that I'm the only one who has actually climbed the rank latter from bottom to top. All of my fellow generals here went right out of the university into the officer's corps, a bit of sucking up or generous "gifts" later and they find themselves in High Command. I signed on as a noncommissioned recruit back home on Chommel Minor and _proved_ my way up the top. Not to speak poorly of all my peers here, men like General Wellington and Surface Marshall Tallard I truly admire, but most of the others just enrage me; sometimes I miss the good old days of eight men in a foxhole

I first met the blue fish in a situation just like that, back in the "good ol' days." It was long ago in that marvelous time, the year 1 RGC. Me and an all-human squad were part of a pretty sizable operation to subdue an open resistance to the New Order; the entire planet of Commenor wasn't taking kindly to the idea of an Empire. So all us humans were let off your typical _Sentinel_-Class Landing Craft in the middle of an open plain. Simple enough, right? Yeah. The instant the lander was out of sight, we got hit. We got hit hard.

What looked like a nice, quiet LZ turned into the very mouth of Hell. The quiet was replaced by a nightmarishly oppressive din of soldiers yelling, blasters firing, and grenades exploding. They had hidden themselves in the tall grass, about fifteen Rebel soldiers armed with E-WEB heavy repeating blasters. If you don't get the picture just from that, let me tell you that _one_ E-WEB would've been more than enough to take us all out. It was me, 7 other completely green troopers, and a veteran sergeant; we didn't even get a lieutenant for that operation. But I can't really blame them, we weren't expecting a tough op.

Sure enough, though, we had a tough op. The others tried to fight, but I had my wits enough to know we were royally screwed. So I fought fire with fire, I dove to the ground and hid myself in the tall grass. With the Apocalypse itself happening around me, I started to crawl. I crawled for what seemed like ages, on and on into the tall grass; I couldn't see anyone or anything, which is a good sign. On a battlefield, if you can't see them, they probably can't see you.

A battle, like everything else in the physical universe, is bipolar. After the ear-bursting din of the battle, there is an eerie quiet. The quiet fell somewhere during my crawl, I honestly don't know when, but the din had been a good ways behind me. My comrades were dead; the entirety of my all-human squad was butchered by those Rebel E-WEBs. 

Even so, I don't hold some sort of divine grudge against them. They were doing their jobs; I can't blame them for that. Hell, we had the same job to do; if they didn't do it to us, we would've done it to them. Of course, they hadn't _completely_ finished their work; they had still missed one trooper. They had still missed Private Xela Atsoc.

And that little soldier kept on crawling. To this day, I still don't know what I expected to happen, I can't think of what I wanted to reach or accomplish with my crawling. When I finally reached the end of that trek, I thought it was the end of everything else. The tromping of boots and the pushing aside of tall grass ended my crawl-journey, and I expected to look up and see a Rebel trooper's rifle in my face. But when I did manage to pull my head up, dead tired as I was, what I saw surprised me twofold: not only was it a friendly, it was a blue Mon Calamari in a grey trooper's uniform and a sergeant's rank patch. The fish barked an order in his weirdly accented Basic and before my exhaustion-racked skull processed the situation, a Sullustan and an Aqualish pulled me to my feet and supported me with their arms. I had been picked up by an all-alien trooper squad.

Durlock probably saved my life all those years ago, though I can never know for sure. Still, the gratification I received that day, I don't think it's ever been equaled at any other point in my life. After I explained what had happened to me out on that beastly hot Commenor plain, the blue fish said one thing: "Aroight, let's go get even, lads."

And he did, we all did. I slept softly that night with two things in my head: the first was the sweet music of screaming Rebels, and the second was the fact that all the New Order's talk about alien inferiority was bunk; pure, grade-A political shit.


	2. Chapter 2

1st Lieutenant Durlock Acibor  
Victor Squad

Iota Company

6th Battalion

2nd Division

Corellian Defense Corps

Imperial Army

24 R.G.C.  
1100 Hours Imperial Centre Time

The last two sentences of the Imperial Officer's Battle Manual state: "A broad survey is an essential foundation for any theory of war, and it is equally necessary for the ordinary soldier who seeks to develop his own outlook and judgment. Otherwise his knowledge of war will be like an inverted pyramid balanced precariously on a slender apex." And that exact quotation is the reason I left the service when I did, that's why I'm both Lieutenant Acibor and Doctor Acibor simultaneously; of course, I always prefer Lieutenant, I'm a soldier first and a scholar second.

Durlock Acibor, Doctor of Historical Analysis, Master of Galactic History, Bachelor of Arts. I have all of the diplomas; they're hung crookedly on the wall of my tiny officer's quarters back in the barracks. I spent eight years of my life at Coruscant University to "develop my own outlook and judgment," all bankrolled by the Empire, of course. It seems that after 4 years of service in an Imperialist police force on Mon Calamari and 16 years in the Imperial Army itself, the Empire will give you a hand with collegiate tuition. Obviously, I spent the first two years or so rather alone on Coruscant, I received the occasional message from Xela or one of the lads (troopers who have served or are serving with me are always "the lads"), but the other students were mostly unwilling even to speak to a five-foot tall blue Mon Cal who was thirty years old at their birth. But those years are behind me now, I'm a soldier again, and I'm damn proud of it.

Xela always says that if I had just stayed a soldier, I could have been the first non-humanoid in High Command. I doubt it. But even if he is right, High Command is for articulate lads with pretty faces and lots of time on their hands, not aging amphibian soldiers; there's also the matter of my alleged "accent," but they're just teasing, I learned Imperial Basic from the finest officers on Mon Calamari. Besides, if I was _in_ High Command, I'd have to blame _myself_ for lousy orders and flubbed intel, and who wants to do that?

High Command screws things up plenty, but they're always better than the damned Rebels; whatever the Rebels equate to High Command seems to be a group of devils beating their heads together to formulate something that might vaguely resemble a plan. The Rebels can be sneaky devils, but they completely lack any strategic mind. I have always been left to think, what do they think is going to happen? Do they just intend to kill His Lordship, but then what? I suppose they assume that after the Emperor is dead, the Galaxy will just throw up its arms and go: "Ah, I guess you Rebels were right, we'll go back to a Republic. Oh, and by the way, we want _you_ to lead it; you're good with that, no?" The very foundations of their revolution make no sense, and as a historian, I have an added perspective of why it is so ridiculous.

The Empire was born out of democracy. Even before His Lordship was elected to the office of Supreme Chancellor, he spoke openly of how the Republic was growing more and more defunct, corrupt, and evil; he was one of the senators representing the sovereign planet of Naboo, which was at the time under attack by the droid armies of the Trade Federation. His Lordship petitioned the Senate for support, but the heads of the Senate were in the pockets of the Trade Federation, so nothing was done about it. The Nabooians were doomed, occupied by the Trade Federation's droids, their freedom had been taken from them by a corporate empire.

But Senator Palpatine called for a vote of "no confidence" and impeached the incompetent Supreme Chancellor, and was quickly voted into the same position by the truly democratic remnant of the Senate. With his new power, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine dispatched peacekeeping forces to Naboo and restored their liberty. But even having such a great man as His Lordship in power was not enough to save the galaxy from the loathsome bonds of alleged "democracy," as the Trade Federation's contacts within the Senate ensured that they were _not_ disarmed, the Nemoidians retained control of the corporation, and the very man responsible for the suffering of Naboo, Nute Gunray, retained his position as Viceroy. "Democracy" had failed, there had to be a better way.

The better way was the way of Empire; what the uneducated Rebels don't realize is that His Lordship is a supreme ruler and a monarch, yes, but he is what is historically known as an "enlightened despot." The powers that Palpatine holds he uses to execute actions for the benefit of the Galaxy without waiting for deliberations from some outdated legislative body; the true danger of an imperial monarchy is that somewhere along the line, a man will take power who does _not_ have the Galaxy's best interests in mind. However, this is not an issue under the rule of the Emperor, as he is immortal! His divine presence cannot, and will not leave the Galaxy unless it occurs by forcible overthrow of the Imperial government.

That just isn't going to happen as long as me and the lads have breath in our bodies.

Now, I'm used to the lads being me and a bunch of bucket head humans. You know, Stormtroopers, Stormies, the Boys in White; but always, _always_, real humans. I don't work with clones, I only did once and I never will again. When recruits were first allowed into the Republic Army toward the end of the Clone Wars, I was rather excited to fight alongside these men who had fought for the glory of the Republic so effectively. My view of the matter changed about the instant I was placed in a squad of the guys; they're bloody droids with skin! Honestly, if you've ever tried to have a conversation with a clone, you know what I mean; they have eyes, flesh, and bones, all the normal things you would expect to see on a human, but their brains are _not_ normal. The brain of a Clone Trooper is laid out like a droid computer brain, it operates on a series of algorithms; strategic algorithms, situation assessment algorithms, and self-preservation algorithms. All of these equations run back and forth through their collective consciousness to achieve their given objective while suffering a predetermined amount of "acceptable casualties." I'll tell you here and now, there's nothing scarier than being in a squad where you're the only one who is _determined_ to come out alive; when the squad officer tells you that _you_ might be an acceptable casualty, you can feel your stomach sink into your feet.

I don't work with clones. Ever.

But I have nothing against the bucket head humans. Stormtrooper recruits are some of the finest lads in the Galaxy, they all go through at least a year of training on Carida, and that's damn hard. I know because I, too, went to the Imperial Academy, in fact I don't know any non-clones who didn't. A ten mile hike through the wilderness with sixty pounds of armor and equipment on you is difficult anywhere, but in gravity that's 1.98 times Galactic Standard, it's nearly one hundred and sixty pounds pulling you down. You've got to have respect for lads like that, it takes dedication to pass a course on Carida; and the Stormtrooper training requirements are one of the highest in the Imperial Army. I went to the officer's training school on Carida, which is less physically challenging, but if what I did was easier than what they did, I've got to have some respect for the boys.

I'm going to miss working with the bucket heads; but I'm getting ahead of myself, it's Corellia. My grey officer's jacket held strong in the light wind as I checked my small, standard-issue, black pistol holstered right against my belt, as always. I think it gives me a modest, yet commanding presence. I had on my tactical visor, as usual; the shiny black thing covered my eyes. My weak, weak Mon Calamari eyes _always_ need an aid of some sort; but it's almost always the tactical visor that I use, it's light, effective, and looks bloody brilliant. I've always felt that Coronet, the capital of Corellia, was one of the most untrustworthy cities in the Galaxy; the way the massive skyscrapers loom all around me always keeps me on my toes. All the men, women, and children walking this way and that, going about their own potentially-traitorous business, and always giving me and the lads these peculiar looks. This world in particular, Corellia, has always kept my interest as a trooper, much more so than my own waterlogged birthplanet. Perhaps the people of this world are flooded with Rebel propaganda, doomed to a life of treason, or perhaps the traitorous desire was from something deeper, from some specific man, a focal point, a locus.

I always aspire to destroy both the propaganda, and whomever that damnable locus is.

Walking along on that bright Corellian day, I stood with the last five bucket heads I think I'll ever command: Sergeant Gilad Cassell, a commanding vet promoted to NCO on Ghorman; Corporal Gawain Steel, a man whose last name adequately reflected his personality, the lad was _born_ on Carida; Private Hart Vogel, a greenie from Corellia, but still a trooper; Private Zin Knight, a shaky Coruscanti son of an ex-Imperial Senator; and last was my favorite, Private Liddell Auckland, he was a lad that was always excited about everything, always ready for action, and _always_ prepared to lay his life on the line. That day, as I said, was bright; I distinctly remember casting my gaze towards the sun in time to see a conglomeration of avian creatures crossed directly in front of them, all of them making chaotic noises, as if even this world's animals rejected order, even the nonsentients felt the lack of reason in the air. Chaos. That word perfectly describes the Galaxy. It describes the Galaxy of Rebellion.

Me and the lads of Victor Squad had been assigned to a simple patrol around Coronet. I didn't like it, but it was necessary, and I did it; same old, same old, business as usual, and so on. Sometimes I feel like it isn't the proper use of a Stormtrooper squad; I mean, we're the Emperor's finest troops in the Galaxy, and here we are doing simple security work. What the bloody Hell are they thinking? But I know what the situation is, I know there's a Rebel around each corner, a Rebel who would just run up and slit the throat of some less-trained soldiers, they need _us_ to keep everything stable. Besides, we're pretty damned scary walking around the streets.

There was a lovely park on the corner. Young children frolicking in the thick green grass, old men and women sat kindly chatting amongst themselves on the cold, hard durasteel. But Sergeant Cassell turned to me and pointed something out, something that didn't seem right,

"Lieutenant, take a look at that group of men over there, a bit suspicious, eh sir?" He pointed directly at them, leading the entire squad's gaze. You could tell who their leader was by looking at him. You just got this gut feel that he was in charge. Also, he was doing all the talking, and slapping anyone who interrupted. He was sitting next to a clone of his. Or twin. The twin was looking bored and action-hungry. There was also a small hooded creature but all he was doing was twittering. And then there was a Weequay with red eyes, just standing and staring,

"Good thinking, Sergeant, there's definitely something not quite right about them. Victor Squad, move out to investigate!" I did my little thing with the hand-signals as I'd learned, it was more of a habit than me actually thinking I needed to illustrate my orders. Me and the boys steadily began to advance on the park, moving at an average pace so as not to create a situation of alarm.

Unfortunately for everyone present then, there _was_ a situation of alarm. From the very center of the park, light, heat and shrapnel burst outwards across the grass, ripping through and killing everyone in range. The four men in the shadows grinned and cackled. After the smoke started drifting up into the air, the screaming of terrified creatures and the wailing of sirens pierced the explosion-fresh air. The four ran, laughing all the while, savoring the destruction. The shockwave had knocked us all down, but Corellian fire crews were already moving into position; the situation would be contained, at least. Knight and Auckland pulled me to my feet, I was pumped-up and extremely pissed-off, I wanted the heads of those four men,

"Steel, get on the horn, phone some departments and get me those men!" I watched as Corporal Steel put his hand to his helmet, adjusting his communication frequencies to call CorSec precincts in the nearby area. While he was doing that, a SoroSuub limousine pulled to a halt directly in front of us, and produced a human, flanked by two Stormtroopers, wearing a grey uniform, much like mine, except his was adorned with twice as many ribbons and medals. His rank badge read Surface Marshall, this was the top military man on Corellia,

"First Lieutenant Durlock Acibor, you are to come with me immediately. Please, this speeder has been prepared for you," he spoke quietly with a distinct tone of anger in his voice; the boys just watched in stunned silence, even Steel had given up on his calls. None of us, not even I, had _ever_ been directly addressed by someone of such a high rank,

"Sir, yes, sir!" I quickly answered with an officers' salute, and at once piled into the limousine. The Surface Marshall pulled himself right in behind me and took a seat directly opposite me in the spacious, luxuriously adorned vehicle. The two Stormtroopers he had brought with him stayed behind with my lads, though I got the feeling they weren't my lads anymore as the limousine's engines roared and pushed the vehicle away from the smoldering ruins of the park,

"Surface Marshall Jaik Morril," the man introduced himself with an outstretched hand, which I quickly returned with my own name, "I know who you are, Acibor, most of High Command does. Your actions have been watched since you re-enlisted into the Imperial Army. I can see you are confused, but the situation is very logical, I assure you. You, my friend, are among only a handful of men who have taken advantage of the Imperial Army's education benefits and then re-enlisted; this is typical only of the most loyal soldiers; the second point of interest is much more obvious, you are a Mon Calamari. The profile of your species labels you as notoriously disloyal and a threat to the Empire, yet your service record labels you as borderline _fanatical_ and among the Empire's most charismatic leaders,"

The limousine was floating above all of Coronet's usual ground traffic, and the durasteel jungle was flowing by at a steady rate, I quickly realized the obvious, "I'm not being held responsible for today's attack? I'm not being recommended for a court martial?"

The Surface Marshall chuckled politely before replying, "Of course not, Acibor. The situation today was _far_ beyond your control, though you reacted to it perfectly. The mix of your training and your own creativity makes you one of the most brilliant commanders I have ever seen. To send you home in shame would be to shoot myself in the foot. However, you are half right. To Victor Squad and the entire non-commissioned Imperial Army, you were executed for your failure today; that is because of the nature of your next assignment,"

I nodded at that, I was dead now to the lads, the poor lads, "And what exactly is my next assignment, sir?"

"We are coming to that, Acibor. Just be patient, which I already know you are more than capable of." I looked out the window as I felt the limousine begin to slow down, we were at a security checkpoint, and the driver was showing identification to what was clearly a level-3 checkpoint at which _everyone_ must be identified regardless of vehicular markings. The driver advanced us further to a level-4 checkpoint, at which security personnel physically looked into the tinted windows of the vehicle to examine the passengers; by the time we continued beyond that level, I already knew where we were. Imperial Army Corellian High Command, the place where all of the Army's operations in the entire Corellian Sector were planned and executed, some important business was about to go down.

An armed escort led me and the Surface Marshall into the building and through its complex layout of pure white corridors. Non-commissioned troops and officers alike saluted Morril as we went by, he was the boss here, and everyone knew it. The two Stormtroopers that were our escort led us to Morril's private office, where they were promptly dismissed. The Surface Marshall took me into his modest office alone. Special attention from High Command was either an incredibly bad thing or the best thing to happen to your career,

"Lieutenant Acibor, this is the single most clandestine operation in your entire career," he said to me as he sat down behind his desk, he pointed to one of the chairs opposite his desk, which I quickly took, "You are being reassigned to a special division of the Imperial Elite. Surely you are familiar with General Madine's Storm Commandos?" I nodded, of course I had heard of them, they were famous for their ruthless efficiency and were the top ring that _any_ bucket head could hope to achieve, barring His Lordship's Royal Guard, "Your new position will be similar to that one. It is a top secret subdivision of the Imperial Elite: Commandos' Corps, a classified assignment for superior… nonhuman soldiers," I nodded again, this time less enthusiastically; again, I was being singled out as an alien, "Of course, you are well aware of the New Order's stance on human superiority. An alien of your talents _must_ be tapped, but it must be done covertly; an alien of your talents cannot be tapped before the general public. The Emperor himself recognizes that some nonhuman soldiers can go above and beyond, and _that_ is the purpose of your new assignment," he opened up a drawer in his desk and produced a datapad, which he handed to me, "This is all the information you need. Ah, but you will be needing one last thing," again he reached under his desk and slid something else across the desk to me, "Wear it proudly, _Captain_ Durlock Acibor," it was a lovely new rank badge: Three red boxes on top, three blue below, an Imperial Army Captain, "There is only one matter left, you need to meet your squad."


	3. Chapter 3

2nd Lieutenant Kaz-lath Rhykis

Bravo Squad

Classified Subdivision (Psst… that means "ugly alien pit")

Commandos' Corps

Imperial Elite

Imperial Army

22 R.G.C.

I didn't put on my watch this morning, but I'm pretty sure it's nighttime

The ladies love a man in uniform, especially a military man. You sign up for the IA (that's badass military lingo for "Imperial Army") and the women will just throw themselves at you. That was my thinking when I signed on; that and my options were pretty closed because of my lousy education. Actually, Dad paid for a pretty damned good education, I just didn't care enough to exploit it.

And you know what, I still _really_ don't care.

Dad's a politician. He worked his ass off in the Republic before I was born, and was an Imperial Senator representing Chandrila, for as long as there _was_ an Imperial Senate. Today, he's somewhere in the Imperial government; a governor of something, maybe Chandrila. Probably not. The New Order stuffed me into the "top secret aliens" corps for being a Zabrak, so it's likely that they don't take kindly to the idea of a Zabrak being an Imperial Governor. I should've worn a hat and told them I was human.

I mean honestly, I can understand putting the giant fish here. The lizard monster? Definitely. Even the fuzzy dog man should be segregated. But really, I'm a frelling human with spikes on my head! They seriously wouldn't know the difference if I was wearing a hat, I don't even have that many tattoos.

This whole "hiding-me-away" shit isn't going to work out. I signed on for a government paycheck and to get me some ass. How are the ladies going to flock to me if I'm hidden away in some top-secret facility/concentration camp thing? I'm too damned good at what I do.

I didn't know I was an elite marksman. I shot some game with Dad back on Chandrila every once in a while, but I never thought I could be the all-powerful sniper that they make me out to be. That's why I'm here, that's why I'm too damned good; they hide me because an alien shouldn't be able to put a bolt through an Ugnaught from ninety meters. Hell, I'm so good that this Surface Marshall Morril commissioned me from Sarge to LT (awesome military lingo for "lieutenant") and 86ed (that's badass military lingo for "forgot about" or "gave up on" or "screwed") officer's training school. Now I get a full commissioned officer's paycheck ever week _and_ I get to lazy-salute instead of the full deal.

But, of course, there's some alleged responsibility with the title. I haven't seen it yet since I'm second in command to this squad; I guess if the fish monster kicks the bucket, I'll have to deal with the chumps. My thinking, though, is that if these guys are all as good as me, we haven't got a thing in the Galaxy to worry about. We're supposed to be the finest in the Galaxy, like right below the big E's Royal Guards. The Morril guy told me all about them before we all officially met.

Supposedly, that Sergeant Hiska Dey'Vega is the only documented black Bothan ever seen by the Empire. Morril said that nobody can sneak as well as the little doggy, that I could be standing in the middle of Imperial Center in broad daylight and he could make off with my kidneys without being seen. I'm skeptical, but that's from a Surface Marshall, so I guess he must be right; I'll keep an eye on my organs when the kid's around. Oh, that's the other thing; he's even younger than me; Hiska's only like 17 years old or something. Crazy, huh? He's _that_ good at what he does, already an NCO, and only _seventeen_ years old.

Now, it's that big guy who really worries me. The Trandoshan, Sergeant Larosz. He's like me in that he doesn't tell people his first name; we can curse our parents together for having lame and incomprehensible names. Of course, that's the _only_ way he's like me. This guy is frelling _gigantic_. I mean, I know the T'doshok come big, but I know they don't come _this_ big. In the Galactic Basic Dictionary, they should have a picture of Larosz next to the word "Juggernaut." If I had to guess, which I do, I'd say he's about 8 or 9 feet tall and probably a good 350 pounds of steel-crushing bulk. If I had to guess, which I _don't_, I'd say his purpose in our squad was to throw meteors at our enemies; but Morril says he's demolitions and heavy weapons. Looking at that guy, he could probably carry three tanks of fuel to hold a flame projector in each hand _while_ they were mounted on top of rocket launchers. And no, I'm absolutely _not_ exaggerating. The way he talks too, it's creepy, always practically a whisper, stretching out the "s" sounds like all Trandossssssshanssssssss do. Oh, and don't get me started on his smell; the big guy always smells like a walking butcher shop. I swear, if I have to share a bunk with that guy, I will lay the hammer down: "no skinning animals on your mattress!" Well, I'd probably ask a lot nicer than that. Actually, I think I'd rather put up with the smell than have to give _him_ an order.

The last is the fish boss-man himself, Captain Durlock Acibor. I'm told that if you cover your eyes, Acibor is the most charismatic squad leader in the universe; I wouldn't know that, I haven't covered my eyes. The guy's a five foot tall blue Mon Calamari with the craziest accent I've ever heard. But hell, I only started this journal because he told me to, and I don't think I'd have done it otherwise. Taking orders is for chumps, I've always said, but the way that fish tells you to do things… it's odd, it's like he's politely asking you to do them, but with the underlying tone that he knows you'll do it. Of course, that's given you can understand him.

After my meeting with Surface Marshall Morril, I was sent across the hall to a waiting room where I met Dey'Vega and Larosz; though "met" was more like "sat in awkward silence with." But it wasn't too long before we were called into the SM's (there's some lingo again, it means "Surface Marshall's") office to meet our squad leader, and there he was. We all filed into the small room and stood at attention until the guy with the shinier uniform told said,

"At ease. Captain Acibor, meet your squad: 2nd Lieutenant Rhykis here is your expert marksman and your next of rank, Sergeant Larosz is demolitions and heavy weapons, and the little Bothan here is Sergeant Dey'Vega, stealth ops specialist." I was pleased with the introduction, you know, I like being referred to as "expert" anything. But what made me raise an eyebrow was the Captain's response,

"Aroight, 'ey'lldo; oygess theserr me newlads. Oyll makem th'fines groupahtroopahs in th'Galaxy boymorning." I just assumed he was speaking Mon Calamarian or something, but after hearing him speak a few more times, I eventually ran it over in my head to decipher: "All right, they'll do; I guess these are my new lads. I'll make them the finest group of troopers in the Galaxy by morning." It didn't take me too long to get used to his speech, but damn was it a shocker at first. I looked to see how the other guys were reacting, Larosz just stood there like a monolith in his specially-crafted Storm Commando armor while Dey'Vega was clearly rolling over the dialogue in his head; of course, I'd come to learn that Hiska did that with _everything_ he heard. Apparently part of his stealth ops genius is to analyze speech for implied subtext and other codes.

So there I stood, labeled a freak alien expert marksman. We had all gotten uneasily acquainted and waited for Surface Marshall Morril to tell us exactly what we were going to have to do in our new top secret disgusting alien squad. To be honest, I certainly was curious, what extraordinary adventures would we be going on? Were we off to assassinate the Rebel leader, Mon Mothma? Were we going to serve personal guard duty for Emperor Palpatine? Or were we going to go put a stop to some horrible crime lord's reign of terror in the Outer Rim? Turns out, it was none of the above:

"You are to be attached to the Harbinger Battle Group, specifically aboard the Imperial Star Destroyer _Herald._ A _Lambda_ is waiting outside to take you up. Get aboard and await further orders. Clear?"

I reflexively snapped to an enlisted salute, still not quite used to the whole officer thing yet, "Crystal, sir!" The four of us called out in unison,

"Very good. Praise Palpatine! Carry on!" He gave a quick officer's salute back, cuing our exit. We let the fish Captain go first and fell into formation behind him as we walked down the hall toward the landing pad.

Captain Acibor started talking to us just as soon as the SM's door closed, "Aroight, gents. I don't really know you, an' you don't really know me; but I guarantee you tha'll change pretty damn fast. You follow my orders, I respect the lot o' you, an' we'll get along all peachy-keen loike. You get me, soldiers?"

Dey'Vega and Larosz quickly spouted out, "Sir, I get you, sir!" But I wasn't really paying attention, so I sort of mumbled a half-assed "I get you." Now he didn't like that one bit, the Captain suddenly halted and moved his arm to the "stop" hand signal,

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant Rhoikis, I think I heard the wind…" there was definite sarcasm in his voice as he turned around to face me, "I'll go a bit easy on ya since you're a commissioned officer an' it must've been a whoile, but I'm pre'y sure they taught in something on Carida, no? Don't you know that when speakin' to a superior officer, the last and first words out o' your mouth will _always_ be 'sir?' Are they not teachin' that ta you young folks?"

Of course the drill sarges taught us that, it's a cornerstone of Imperial military respect, and the fish boss-man knew it. He was frelling with me, reminding me who's boss; and let me tell you, I never forgot it, "Sir, no, sir! Sorry, sir!" I quickly spouted out. He smiled, nodded, and continued walking.

The shuttle ride was a bit less awkward. Standing in the center of a High Command facility can be pretty unnerving; now that we were out of that situation, we had all calmed down and slightly opened up. I sat next to Dey'Vega, with Larosz and Captain Acibor seated across. Me and the little Bothan got to talking, getting to know each other a little better; a conversation with Dey'Vega can be kind of difficult, if you watch his eyes, you see that he's analyzing every single sentence you say, running it back and forth in his mind to see exactly what you mean with each word. He told me he was the last of his kind. Apparently, his clan had moved off of Bothawui about a century ago to some backwater Outer Rim world; sure enough, it wasn't a good idea. He said the rest of his kin were gobbled up by some horrible gigantic lizard monster. Is it a bad thing that I looked at Larosz while he was talking about it? Probably. The big guy was chatting with the blue boss-man, but the way he whisper-speaks with all the hissing, I couldn't really hear it; Dey'Vega probably could, he must hear everything with those huge ears of his.

I told the Bothan about myself, too. A lot, actually, he seemed much more interested in learning about me than telling me about him; a funny thing, really, since people have a tendency to talk about themselves rather than listen to others. I guess that's what makes him an expert intelligence gatherer, he actually tries _listening_ rather than just waiting to talk. I told him about my upbringing, how privileged I was (and am, I guess), I explained how I'm not really a "true" Zabrak, being clanless and all. Now _that_ piqued his interest, so I explained how true it is that I'm just a spiky human. The whole clan business doesn't interest me or my family; hell, the only tattoos I have are the birth one and the coming-of-age one. The really orthodox clan-Zabrak have more tattoos than skin by my age, I always wonder if it's healthy to have that much ink in you.

I really like that Dey'Vega, he's a good guy. I'm not sure he can stand my sense of humor though; the kid is really heavy into the whole clan respect and stiffness thing, so much so that I don't think he gets any of my jokes. It's all right; he'll get it all in time. I'm pretty damned sure we'll be locked into this whole deal for a while. If I had known I was going to end up here, I wouldn't have even signed on; hell, I'd get out now if I thought I could. There's something about the confidentiality of this situation that tells me I wouldn't live to sign the resignation papers.

But then again, the power that I now hold is _really_ awesome. That's the second reason I signed on with the Empire, and I was reminded of it as the _Lambda_-Class Shuttle approached the Imperial Battle Group. The Empire is incredibly powerful; the Imperial Military is the greatest fighting force that has ever existed in the history of the Galaxy, and now I'm a major part of it.

When I was first going to sign on with the IA back on Chandrila, some of my more liberal friends were against it. You know, the old Rebel shit: "But the Empire is _evil,_ man!" "How can you help those _cruel oppressors?_" "Do you know what they _did_ on Ghorman?" Frell, man, the bottom line is that I really, _really_ don't care one way or the other. It all goes back to the chief precept of Rhykis' military career: Good or bad, we're the guys with the Star Destroyers. You can take your whole revolution crap and shove it just right back up your ass when your planet is turned into a smoldering wasteland by a battery of sixty Taim & Bak XX-9 turbolasers. Yeah, have fun supporting the Rebellion, dumbasses. I'll just sit here and stroke my modified BlasTech E-11 sniper rifle, wearing my comfortable, climate-controlled standard-issue Storm Commando battle armor. You can bathe yourself in dirt and throw rocks at the AT-ATs.

I remembered all of these wonderfully awesome thoughts as the shuttle was enveloped by the shiny whiteness of the _Herald's_ landing bay. The little "hiss" of the boarding ramp's pneumatic lifts made me feel important as me and the guys strode out of the shuttle. Sadly, there weren't rows and rows of Stormtroopers to greet us, just one ensign in his green Navy uniform,

"You must be the 'special guests' that Command referred to, I'm Ensign Ivan Montfore," he said with an enlisted salute, "I'm to take you directly to your quarters, no questions asked." I really like the whole cloak-and-daggerness, even if it does keep the ladies at bay; even though it's supposed to create just the opposite, the aura makes me feel like the center of attention.

Captain Acibor fed the ensign an officer's salute and nodded silently, cuing the greenie to lead us through the blocky corridors of the Star Destroyer to an unmarked door. He punched some button on the wall, causing the door to slide open, revealing a spartanly-furnished room: two bunks, one water closet, some compartments, and a communications console. It certainly wasn't the Palace Hotel at Imperial Centre, but at least it was semi-private. I only had one critical thought in my head: I will _not,_ under any circumstances, take the bunk under Larosz.

The ensign left us silently.

"What do we do now, Captain?" I asked, pressing some buttons on the compartments,

The boss-man answered standing perfectly upright, just like he always does, as if someone had put too much starch in his uniform, "We do what we always do, Lieutenant; we follow orders. Unfortuantely, our orders roight now are to await further orders. So that's what we do. If you don't understand the whole 'doin' our job' part of bein' a soldier, I moight need ta foind meself a new number-two man."

I pulled myself up into my most military-looking stance and replied, "Affirmative, sir, awaiting further instructions!" I got the feeling it wouldn't be the first time that military effectiveness would conflict with my tragic apathy.


	4. Chapter 4

Sergeant Visskitzitur Larosz

Bravo Squad

Classified Subdivision

Commandos' Corps

Imperial Elite

Imperial Army

22 R.G.C.

1800 Hours Imperial Centre Time

The wailing of the children kept me awake, and I had a terrible vision: I saw the fall of my people. Bleached bones, under a harsh sun. The Dosh, gone. Why would the Scorekeeper send such a vision? She is not cruel, she has watched over us. We have had victories a plenty in the hunt. Our hunters roam all corners of the Galaxy. We are the envy of lesser people, lesser people who tell terrible lies about us; they do not understand so they lie! But the Rebels, they are the masters of falsehood. War has come, and I have no more false visions; and I feel the children are quiet.

The Rebels seek to destroy the Empire, the very Empire that gave the Dosh interstellar travel to expand our hunt. The Empire that trades things to the Dosh in exchange for filthy Wookiee bodies and brought a new level of reward for the hunt, which expanded the glorious bounty of the Scorekeeper! Some T'doshok believe that the Emperor is the Scorekeeper herself, manifest in the corporeal world; I must admit, he _is_ the exchanger of Points before the spirit world. Though if I was to join in that belief, I would likely end up preaching in ancient languages and calling out the Emperor's name in the middle of the night like Captain Acibor does.

The Emperor has brought a purpose to my life, a purpose beyond slaughtering Wookiees in the deep forests of Kashyyyk. Even if he is not the Scorekeeper, I have him to owe for the salvation of the Doshan people, and for my new part in it. He sent me on my mission to destroy the Rebellion that would cause the downfall of Dosha, and therefore sent me on a divine mission of Her Majesty the Scorekeeper.

I do my work for the Empire and for myself in practice, but in truth, I am a holy warrior. I fight for my people, and therefore I fight for the Scorekeeper. My black Storm Commando armor is but one layer of protection, the far greater defense is the divine _aura_ of protection, with which She has infused me.

I am among the largest T'doshok to ever walk the Galaxy, and that is certainly a sign of my purpose. The Doshan runts can tackle Wookiees in the woods, while _my _divine form shall rend Rebel star cruisers in twain as I cackle victoriously over the crushed corpses of the Great Betrayers, Mon Mothma and Leia Organa. This victory is my divine purpose, and I will fulfill it even if it means my own death. Praise Palpatine and all glory to the Scorekeeper!

As I waited patiently in the sparsely decorated room, these were my thoughts. Captain Acibor stood staring out the small view port opposite the door, looking down at the blue orb of Corellia while Lieutenant Rhykis complained to Sergeant Dey'Vega about where his possessions were.

What little I have seen of the Lieutenant disturbs me; he seems very much a man of the physical and material world. Dey'Vega and the Captain appear to have a far deeper connection to the spiritual world, for which I respect them, but Rhykis' preoccupation with vice and goods makes me uncomfortable. I fear being forced to depend on such a man without faith; I pray that he never holds my life in his hands. His humor, as well, is disconcerting. The Lieutenant thinks everything is a joke, when the dire seriousness of the Galaxy is apparent to all others. I think if our lives were on the line, he would still be mocking the world and laughing at his own pathetic humor.

Dey'Vega entertained Rhykis' comments while I sat on the bunk I had claimed as my own. I watched the Captain, trying to get a fix on exactly what he was looking at. I honestly could not tell, he just seemed to stare at the planet; his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever, he appeared blank as he watched the Star Destroyer's gradual rotation around Corellia.

I began to grow anxious. Sitting and thinking are the pastimes of philosophers and governors, not soldiers and hunters. I am a destroyer of evil, a templar of good; I crush those who would harm the innocent, and I cannot be taken from that task for too long. I grow unnerved, I grow anxious, I grow tormented, and I am reminded of the wailing children.

My salvation came from the communications terminal off in the corner of our small room, it began to beep. The Captain pressed a button on the console and all of our heads turned to view what it produced: the face of a green-uniformed human, his chest plastered with medals, who spoke to our blue leader,

"Captain Acibor, I am Commander Halloway Dorgan, leader of the Harbinger Battle Group, I welcome you and your men aboard my ship. You must be wondering about your being here, and about your first assignment. It will come in time. For now, you are attached to our Battle Group, and that is most important. Surely you have heard about Lord Vader's glorious victory in the Hoth System?" The Captain nodded, of course we had. Only a few weeks ago, Lord Vader's personal Battle Group found and destroyed the Rebel headquarters on the sixth planet of the Hoth System; the victory is _still_ all over the HoloNet News, "As great a blow to the Rebellion as it was, most all of the Rebel leaders escaped, along with a sizable amount of their rabble. The Harbinger Battle Group is just one of many groups under orders to scour the Galaxy for these leaders and their hapless followers. We have located one such target, but the circumstances are, to say the least, unfavorable." The Captain raised an eyebrow from underneath his tactical visor,

"Jus' 'ow unfavorable are we talkin' 'ere, sir?" Asked Captain Acibor, I was still getting used to that accent of his. I thought it over: he tends to drop "h" and "t" sounds, so I figured he had said "Just how unfavorable are we talking here, sir?"

Commander Dorgan chuckled cruelly and looked away as he spoke, "The target is in Hutt Space," the Captain reacted by drooping his skull with dread, "Nar Shaddaa, to be exact, you'll be right in the flaming armpit of the Galaxy. I can't say I envy you all; but from what I hear, the most lawless place in the universe shouldn't even phase you." I did not even need Dey'Vega's analysis skills to know he was being condescending. No matter, though, I have every intention of proving his assumed-false statements completely true. No one dares to cross the path of Larosz, and those who do shall be torn asunder by my might and devoured by my hunger. At that moment, I was hoping that "Commander Halloway Dorgan" _would_ cross my path,

"Can ya give us a bit more info on the target?" Asked the Captain, bringing me more into the "now" and away from thoughts of murdering a Navy officer,

"Of course, of course. The target is a human, a Rebel warlord by the name of Dash Felth, a very high-profile threat. We believe that Felth is a member of the Rebels' whacked-out idea of a High Command. Intel has confirmed that, while he has control over a sizable force of Rebels, they are all fragmented after their escape from Hoth; so you have it easy on that one. Obviously, Felth has chosen to hide himself among the filth of the Galaxy, seeking refuge amongst criminals who have more death sentences than himself; your purpose, obviously, is to prove that there is _no_ refuge for traitors." The Captain nodded and began to take notes on a small datapad, ever the diligent one, that Captain; so respectable, "So I'll get down to the bare logistics. The Harbinger Battle Group will be jumping to Kessel for patrol, launching probots, so on and so forth; from there, _you_ will board an unmarked Junker, which will take you to Nar Shaddaa. We don't want you flying into that system waving Imperial banners all over the place. Understood?" Reflexively, we all answered 'sir, yes, sir' in unison, "Very good. Get to armory Theta-16, your gear is waiting. Praise Palpatine, carry on." With that, the Commander's image blipped away.

Dorgan spoke of armory and gear, always an exciting topic. Another reason to love the Empire is for their marvelous machines. The T'doshok have always been efficient killers, and our equipment we use for killing is impressive. Doshan projectile rifles are favored by game hunters throughout the Galaxy for their accuracy and craftsmanship and Doshan suppressors are the basis for many modern stun weapons and restraint devices. But the Empire's weapons far surpass anything the T'doshok have created in sheer killing prowess. No Doshan brain ever plotted of a weapon which spews forth flames from its spout and the idea of explosives being launched out of a tube over great distances was completely alien before the arrival of the Empire. A soldier of the Empire gets these wondrous devices of destruction completely free of charge, granted that he uses them to kill Rebels. Not at all an unfair bargain, I think. Star Destroyers, space stations capable of destroying planets, walking harbingers of death, and droids designed for the sole purpose of inflicting pain are all creations of the Empire; all were but dreams of the T'doshok. The only shame is that our two cultures did not join together sooner.

Our squad moved to the armory in what we would come to know as "the formation." The Captain was directly up front, of course, with Dey'Vega on his left rear flank and Rhykis on his right, and I march directly behind him; we form an imposing "diamond of death." The diamond pushed down the corridors of the Star Destroyer completely unimpeded; there was not a soul in sight; no enlisted men bustling around, no officers shouting orders. The Star Destroyer seemed deserted, at least the part of its labyrinthine halls we inhabited; but not dirty, certainly. The halls were empty, but not at all derelict; it just appeared as if the corridors had suddenly been cleared. Unhindered, our motley band entered Armory Theta-16. The door slid open to reveal the back of a grey uniform, an Imperial Army man, who quickly spun around to the sound of our arrival.

Dey'Vega, Rhykis, and I were all in Storm Commando armor up to our necks, but the Captain wore only his grey officer's uniform, which drew even _more_ attention to our blue leader. The short, balding human cocked an eyebrow at us as he stared at Acibor in particular; his uniform was that of a Quartermaster Sergeant, probably about the Captain's age,

"Welcome, welcome, my alien friends. You must be the hush-hush squad coming in here. I'm your Quartermaster, Sergeant Tyrrell; nobody else around here so I'm all yours and you're all mine. That reminds me, if you were wondering, all of Theta Sector is empty space 'cept you and me. Yeah, that's for… uh… obvious reasons. Anyways, let me hook you all up. Looks like the lot of you already got your armor, you got helmets for those?" The three of us nodded, "Good, good. Just need to get the good Doctor-Captain here a suit then, let's see…" he trailed off as he turned around to go rummaging through his inventory. The Quartermaster bent over and grunted as he struggled to lift a suit of the black armor onto the armory counter. Acibor walked over and carefully examined it, it was nice, even more specialized than mine; the helmet was long, fitted perfectly to the Captain's bulbous head and the chest plate had his Captain's badge already built in. Somebody had thought ahead for the Captain on this matter, "The rest of you will be needing weapons. I've already got you all sorted out here. Standard issue comes first, you all get these fancy modified E-11 blaster carbines," he pulled four of the black weapons out from under counter, as well as one stock, one scope, and one silencer, "These extra gadgets here are for Lieutenant Rhykis, sniper attachments; but I didn't need to tell you that, did I? Sergeant Larosz is to receive a flame projector, a rocket launcher, and an acid stream launcher. Hmm, hmm, hmm… I wonder which one of you that is," The old man huffed and puffed as he handed the weapons to me, sometimes I don't realize just how weak humans are, I effortlessly placed the flame tank on my back with the rocket tube, the stream launcher and the projector itself went into respective holsters, "And Sergeant Dey'Vega gets a precision laser knife, an 'ultralite' blaster pistol, and this kit of suspicious looking 'specialist' gear. Yeah, I already looked at it, you got the works in there buddy, all the stuff I can't pronounce." The Quartermaster passed the equipment over to Dey'Vega. We all looked over our new gear, tightened it down, and made ourselves ready; we could've hot-dropped into the Rebel headquarters right at that very instant. Of course, we were still a good several hours' hyperspace flight from Kessel.

There was only one thing for us to do to pass the time, and the Quartermaster knew exactly what it was,

"I guess you guys want to try that stuff out, huh?" I grinned at him; I had been waiting to melt some stuff for far too long. It was time to spend a few good hours burning Rebel flags and bull's-eying target dummies.


	5. Chapter 5

Sergeant Hiska Dey'Vega

Bravo Squad

Classified Subdivision

Commandos' Corps

Imperial Elite

Imperial Army

22 R.G.C.

300 Hours Imperial Centre Time

Before my grandfather's grandfather was born, it was our land, our good places, our gods lived there, the skies and streets alike watched over us; we were happy, we loved; we had families and homes, good lives! But now, now _I must fight_ The Rebels disturbed the gods, they poisoned our minds, took what was ours: wives, children, land. And the Rebels talk of how they help us and protect us; they put us to sleep with gold in our purses. And when we awoke, all we had was gone, stolen! They take our sons and turn them into little Rebels, ha! So now I fight to keep what is mine, what must stay mine! _There can be no peace! No peace with Rebels! Men of stone and steel and lies! There can be only **WAR!**_

My entire family is gone, dead. We left Bothawui years ago to escape the destructive politics created by the Rebels; the infighting among the Bothan clans was too much for our elders to handle. Clan Dey left for a remote desert planet, I never bothered to learn its name and never will; the only piece of information I will never seek to control is the name and any knowledge of that dreadful place. But the fact of the matter is that we never would have had to leave for that horrible place had the Rebels not come; if they had never brought the misery of political infighting to Bothawui, the Dey never would have left and I would still have a family.

I hope to find a new clan, one not made of black Bothans like myself, but of like-minded visionaries and good people. The Captain Acibor, for instance, _is_ a good man, the Lieutenant Rhykis, too, is a good man; my fellow Sergeant Larosz, indeed, is a good man. I can see that these people, this Bravo Squad, is Hiska's new Clan Bravo; I will be happy here. The words spoken by my three alien comrades are all backed by sincerity, good humor, loyalty, and honor.

The Captain, despite his peculiar dialect of Basic, is a phenomenal linguist and rhetorician. To listen to Durlock Acibor's phrasing and wordplay alone is a pleasure; I often feel like provoking him to speak for the sheer purpose of having the opportunity to analyze another brilliant turn of rhetorical phrase. The Captain's words carry a force that can be likened to the ancient Mind Tricks of the Empire's most loathed enemies, the Jedi, but without the dark, demonic sorcery of the inhuman monsters. I will follow Captain Acibor's orders to the death, and I intend to.

Our good Lieutenant Rhykis is drastically misunderstood by most. His words carry strong postmodern undertones, and he seems to be a brilliant parodist of Galactic youth. Sadly, his clever lampoons are entirely overlooked by my fellow Sergeant and the Captain; Larosz is simply humorless, and the Captain is always too focused on larger things to pay Rhykis's witticisms any heed. I, on the other hand, enjoy listening to the Lieutenant's half-complaints and social commentaries. Rhykis is, at the moment, the epitome of "fish-out-of-water," to use a term that meant nothing to me until after departing my "homeworld." Still, I have the utmost faith that Rhykis will feel more comfortable in his surroundings given time. The Lieutenant can place a round through the skull of a wamp rat at a hundred meters; he has the skills, he just needs to get used to the military lifestyle.

Sergeant Larosz, however, is a mystery that I have yet to crack. The Trandoshan seems humorless, entirely focused on the destruction of the Rebellion, and unfailingly devout. These three characteristics are typically found in one type of soldier: The Clone Trooper. As far as I have learned from my 7 years of reading everything from feet to faces to speech to, in a way, minds, I have learned that no sentient being can act as a Clone Trooper, as a droid with skin. Therefore, I postulate that Larosz hides something, that there are further emotions within him that he has learned to suppress enough to shield them from my detection; beneath his massive, scaled, morbid surface must beat the heart of a sentient being and ponder the mind of a feeling person.

As of yet, Larosz had revealed only his insatiable battle lust. For _four hours,_ the Trandoshan unrelentingly devastated target dummies in the Theta Sector practice room. When he had expended the amount of fuel he was allowed to use for practice with his flame projector, he moved on to his blaster carbine, and when he had expended the amount of power he was allowed on that, he proceeded to remove his gloves and maim the target dummies with his bare claws. The Captain called out maneuvers and targets for our T'doshok to attempt while Rhykis just watched in awe; he had long since grown bored of the practice, he had bull's-eyed a few dummies but the challenge was far gone, so he sat next to me on a bench half watching and half sleeping. I, on the other hand, watched Larosz's movements intently, studying him, trying to ascertain more about his character from his combat; the ancient Echani taught that the martial arts are the ultimate form of expression and that one can learn more from another in a brief melee than in an entire life of kinship. Unfortunately, I had already learned all I could from Larosz's combat: he is incredibly confident, ridiculously focused, intimidatingly strong, and remarkably refined. But I know that to better understand Larosz, I have to _talk_ to him; something which I actually have yet to do.

Larosz made a swipe with his claws, shredding the upper half of the target dummy, then followed through with a roundhouse kick that shattered the remaining lower half; finally, Acibor intervened. The Captain walked up behind the T'doshok, who panted heavily with a mixture of adrenaline and simple exhaustion, and placed a hand on his arm "'at's enough, Sergeant," he said kindly, "we've been practicin' fer four hours now. I'm pre'y sure we'n handle anything Nar Shadda'll throw at us, eh?"

The Sergeant turned his head from the broken splinters of the target dummy to Captain Acibor, who looked up at him with a weak smile from about three feet under his chin, "Yess, ssir… I agree. I am more than prepared for our misssion. Thank you for training with me, Captain." Larosz's speech was more a low, hissing whisper than actually talking; it depicted a reservation not present in most sentients, and sometimes even an eagerness to keep a secret. Rhykis next to me, had he been listening rather than slumped up against the wall with his head thrown back and some drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth, would have caught only the Captain's side of the conversation. However, one of the benefits of my Bothan bloodline is hearing superior to most other sentients; Larosz's words were as clear to me as if he had been whispering them right into my ear.

The Captain forcefully walked toward the bench upon which Rhykis and I sat, allowing the clomping of his armor and boots to wake my Zabrak Lieutenant, "Good ta see that yer with us, Mista Rhoikis. I was jus' about ta lead the men down ta the hangar for deployment. Do ya agree with this course of action, Lieutenant?"

Rhykis sat up straight and pointed his head directly at our Captain while his eyes scanned the room, allowing him to get his bearings, "Aye, Sir, I do, Sir!" The Zabrak then quickly rose to his feet and shot the Captain an officer's salute, he was starting to get used the role.

Captain Acibor chuckled under his breath, "Good, good. Let's get movin' then. We need ta be headin' off ta the hangar, this monstrosity of a ship should be comin' outta Hyperspace in a minute or two 'ere."

Just as the Captain was leading us out of the practice room, Quartermaster Tyrrell wandered in carrying a bag of power packs, "I saw you guys ran out, so I snuck a few more clips out of the store for you to practice with," he then noticed that we were departing, "Aww… you're headin' out, huh? Makes sense, I heard we'll be dropping into Kessel any minute now. Well, you all have a good one, I'll be here whenever you need me." Tyrrell started back into the armory, but stopped as he clearly remembered something, "I almost forgot! Lieutenant Rhykis there has a long-com in his helmet. If you ever need me, he can get a signal directly through to me here. You know, without going through the _Herald's_ communications red tape. You run out of ammo or need a ride or something; I'll do what I can to hook you up."

I watched the Quartermaster Sergeant with curiosity. No ordinary man would go out of his way to be so helpful. I looked at the Captain, whose face was belying similar feelings; but when I looked back to re-examine Tyrrell's face, I saw what was clearly a motionless wink. Without actually closing one of his eyes, Tyrrell showed a glint that meant something to the Captain, who replied: "Tell Xela I said 'thanks,' aroight?" And with that, we went out the door and followed Captain Acibor to the hangar bay.

I have heard from my peers, those who have been in the service of the Empire far longer than I, that IA Intelligence is often lacking and inaccurate, sometimes fatally. But for whatever incompetence that Intel may have previously shown, they have made up for it with the ship they supplied us. They prepared a rotten carcass of a transport vessel, perfect for infiltrating the dregs of Nar Shaddan society; it was a small ship, suited for five operators with adequate cargo space for either fifteen more passengers or some loads of goods; it would fit in flawlessly with the day-to-day traffic of the Smuggler's Moon.

My comrades and I made our way on board the vessel by way of a single entry ramp into the derelict cargo/passenger area, whereon our pilot moved forth from the cockpit to greet us. He wore the long green trench coat of an Imperial Ace pilot, a matching helmet, and the rank badge of a Lieutenant Commander. Our pilot removed his helmet and placed it under his left arm in the manner common to "flyboys."

But this wasn't a fly_boy_ at all. Our pilot removed _her _helmet, revealing a distinct human female face. Her blond hair, however, had been trimmed down to a slight buzz. The purpose, obviously, was military; should artificial gravity ever be compromised, a long mane of hair floating around certainly would not be beneficial. The woman extended her hand to the Captain in greeting, "Lieutenant Commander Blake. You must be Durlock Acibor."

The Captain nodded and apprehensively took her hand, "_Cap'n_ Durlock Acibor, yes. You'll be flyin' us ta Nar Shaddaa teday, huh?" He asked with skepticism,

"Yep. And I'll tell you, there's no better pilot in the Imperial Navy to do it, Captain. I'll set your men right down on the target's head, and do it faster than anybody else." Our first impression of she who would be our pilot for many missions to come: I noted that she is particularly proud of her work; though her speech and mannerisms indicated a strong, independent exterior that covered for well-hidden emotional turmoil and traumatic past experiences. I always like the idea of concluding that sort of thing with "further study is needed."

"Good ta 'ear it, lassie, good ta 'ear it." I could clearly see that she wasn't terribly thrilled with the idea of being called 'lassie,' as she half-scoffed under her breath and turned back to the cockpit, "Very good, poilet, me an' the lads'll take our seats back 'ere in the hold. You jus' get us there as fast as ya can, aroight?" The Captain went to one of the seats that lined the cargo hold and took his place, whereon the Lieutenant sat next to him. I decided that this was the perfect time to gather some more information on Larosz, who had taken the seat opposite the Captain, so I placed myself next to him and opposite Lieutenant Rhykis.

"You have been rather quiet today, Sergeant." I noted, hoping to open the door for some conversation,

"I do not like to talk much, I prefer action." He replied in his half-whispering voice.

I pulled the seat harness down over myself, "Well, I do not see much opportunity for action on our flight. I believe this trip will be more one of talk."

"No. When there iss not action, there iss rest for Larossz. The Ssergeant will ssleep thiss day." The vessel's engines roared and we were all jostled about in our harnesses as the craft began to lift into the air, save for Larosz; he neither wore a harness, nor was he at all phased by the sudden movement.

The craft had cleared the Star Destroyer, but it continued to lurch back and forth in the open space, "But perhaps we should talk first, before rest. You know, Larosz, it is important to build camaraderie and trust in a squad; we have to know we can depend on each other on the battlefield."

The crackling voice of our pilot came over the ship's aging intercom, "If you look out one of the portholes, which this ship is _not_ equipped with, you will see some of the magnificent black holes that dot the Kessel system." Rhykis chuckled slightly at the sarcasm, but he was busy receiving some sort of command lesson from the Captain.

"No amount of _talk_ will build my trusst in you, Dey'Vega. Your actionss on the battlefield itself will earn my trust and respect. Now leave me be." The Trandoshan turned away from me, giving me a clear view of his left shoulder.

"I require your aid, Larosz," I said, attempting a new tactic, "As a fellow hunter. The Scorekeeper would look unfavorably upon your spurning of a fellow hunter, would She not?"

This statement quickly grabbed the Trandoshan's attention, he turned back to face me, "You do _not_ require my aid, you ssimply wish to exposse my faultss with your mind trickery. I will not be fooled."

"Sergeant, it is my business to know as much about _everyone_ as possible. I gather intelligence. If I have no intelligence on you, our squad could be in danger. To aid our own efforts as hunters, I _must_ speak with you." I avoided raising my voice and continued using an imploring tone,

Larosz sighed very audibly, enough that our Captain looked away from Lieutenant Rhykis for a moment and over to us before he continued his lecture,"Very well, Ssergeant Dey'Vega, for the good of our misssion, I will ansswer your quesstionss."

I proceeded to gather what I could from Larosz, but it was surprisingly not that much. It seems that he hunted Wookiees on Kashyyyk before joining the Imperial Army, but found little challenge in capturing the hairy creatures. He says that his day of change finally came when he was abandoned by his fellow hunters when they left in the hunt ship without him; obviously, he doesn't know _exactly_ why they did it, but he suspects that they felt threatened by his size and greater ability to hunt, and so they left him to eliminate him as competition. So, as the story goes, he survived for several weeks doing what his people do best, hunting, until he came across an Imperial patrol; at first, he took them for corporate slavers trying to steal his people's Wookiee slaves, but after stalking them noted that they were a unit of the Imperial Army _securing_ the corporate outpost. Larosz saw the Empire for what it is, a protector of civilians and a guardian of free trade. In time, he revealed himself to the soldiers and explained his situation; sympathizing with him, they took him back to the outpost and offered to return him to Trandosha. The great T'doshok, however, decided that he had had enough of hunting Wookiees and returning them to his people, who clearly weren't interested in his help anyway, and instead asked them to take him to an IA recruiting station so he could join the war effort. The Imperials readily complied and Larosz ended up where he is today.

As far as I can tell, Larosz hides no secrets behind _his_ rough exterior. Larosz is simply a rough person. However, the great T'doshok is a difficult book to read; I have no reason to believe that he has received any special training, but I have also had very limited exposure to the T'doshok before my meetings with Larosz. The specific nuances of Trandoshan speech and their mannerisms are a mystery to me, so I can draw only on what is basic to all sentients when examining the behavior of Sergeant Larosz.

But as his tale drew to a close, so too did our journey through Hyperspace. Nar Shaddaa is not a far jump from Kessel, and so we quite clearly felt the drop from Hyperspace to Realspace. A tremendous lurch and a magnificent clunking noise from the ancient hyperdrive gave us our final indication that we had indeed arrived at the very center of Hutt space. Once again, Lieutenant Commander Blake's intercom crackled to life,

"This is your captain speaking, welcoming you to the armpit of the Galaxy, Nal Hutta. We will be making our stop at the primary moon, Nar Shaddaa. Nar Shaddaa is a bustling metropolis of life, often called "Coruscant, if it were seedier, uglier, more overpopulated, and devoid of all culture." Please ensure that your harnesses are tightly fastened, as this miserable bucket of bolts is about to enter Nar Shaddaa's lousy excuse for an atmosphere." Her tremendous sarcasm is amusing, but I often wonder if she carries on a few more sentences than necessary. It still seems as though she is hiding something; if not behind her "empowered woman" image, then behind her "undiscovered humorist" image.

As the ship proceeded to make its valiant struggle against the mighty, superheated friction of the atmosphere of the Smuggler's Moon, my thoughts turned back to our mission. We were to find someone, a man, and probably kill him. I had never killed anyone before. I imagine that most in my situation would probably be either nervous about the necessity of the events to come or repulsed by the humanity of them. I, amusingly, was neither. I could not wait to spill the blood of he who did the same to so many innocents.


	6. Chapter 6

Captain Durlock Acibor  
Bravo Squad  
Classified Subdivision  
Commandos' Corps  
Imperial Elite  
Imperial Army  
22 R.G.C.  
600 Hours Imperial Centre Time

Lesson nine in the Imperial Officer's Battle Manual says: "In order to do good, one may have to engage in evil." A Rebel would look at that sentence and think that we use it to justify the evils that we've done, but I look at it and realize the truth that because good happened, any evil is nullified. For instance, the Emperor's critics say that the extermination of the Jedi was an evil act. Even if I overlook the fact that the Jedi were arrogant, exclusionary, reclusive, hereditary, autocratic self-preservationists attempting to control the Galaxy to push their tired philosophy and view them as I would any group of people, if their extermination was the only way to secure peace, prosperity and well-being for the rest of the Universe, I think it would be selfish of them not to exterminate themselves. Of course, it's a moot point since we now know them to have been treasonous dogs. They paid the price for their lack of vision. Sadly, another faction must now do the same. A promise to myself and to history: neither Durlock Acibor nor his Bravo Squad will "engage in evil" to do our good.

Millennia ago, before blasters and Hyperspace technology, a great statesman said: "A house divided against itself cannot stand." The context of his quotation has since been lost to history, but it rings as true today as it did then, the Galaxy will not stand as long as the Rebellion stands. On the day of the creation of the Empire, His Lordship said: "Under the Empire's New Order, our most cherished beliefs will be safeguarded. We will defend our ideals by force of arms. We will give no ground to our enemies and will stand together against attacks from within or without. **Let the enemies of the Empire take heed: Those who challenge Imperial resolve** **_will be crushed._**" It's a shame that those dirt farming Rebels have never gone to a library to read that speech.

I sat in the ship, fastened in tightly next to Rhykis, who had chosen silence rather than to risk upsetting me again. Fair enough, I guess, he'll learn in time what's and what's not. Larosz was explaining something to Dey'Vega, which was pleasing; good to see the lads bonding. I was left to my thoughts; I had to think about the mission. Clearly, Xela had arranged for some help on the mission, that good man.

Colonel Xela Atsoc. Xela is the only human who ever chose to become my _friend._ He's a Colonel, leader of the 101st Nova Regiment, which, I'm very proud to say, is presently attached to the Imperial Star Destroyer _Avenger,_ in Lord Vader's personal fleet. Xela has been in closed meetings with the likes of the late Admiral Kendal Ozzel, current Admiral Piett, General Maximilian Veers and even Lord Vader himself. Of course, in meetings like that, Xela doesn't get to speak, but just to be in the same room as those people would be a dream come true for me. Xela was even in orbit during our glorious victory at Hoth VI; though he and the 101st didn't see ground combat, he was still very proud. He sent me this message after the battle:

_Hey Dur, guess where I am? I'm sitting in my quarters on the _Avenger_ looking down at the sixth planet of the Hoth System. Yeah, you know the place you're seeing on th_e_ HoloNet News right now? I'm there! It's pretty damned exciting. Me and the 101st were _this_ close to seeing action, but Veers decided his boys didn't need help. Funny thing_ is _that all Blizzard's AT-ATs went down except his own; the Rebels got clever and started tripping the bastards! Crazy, huh? _

_Things actually got a little crazy up here when the Rebs pulled out a KDY-150 Ion Cannon. I looked out my window to see a whole ISD get disabled by two blasts, letting a Reb transport and a pair of X-Wings slip by. The flyboys gave chase, but the bastards jumped the Big H before the little screechers could light them up. Pretty creepy, though, started to get worried that the traitors might cut the _Avenger's_ power, but the reports say Blizzard stormed the KDY-150 before they could get any more shots off on us. Still, I think me and the 101st could've taken the Big Rebel Igloo without losing all our walkers, but I'm not going to fault General Max, I'll get his job someday._

_I know you'd like to be out here carving Organa and Mothma into rotten sides of beef, but the rest of the Galaxy needs protecting too. Corellia's probably got more Rebels than Hoth does anyway, if you think about it. So nuke me some Rebs back in the Core and I'll talk to you soon, buddy._

_Always Your Better,_

_Xela_

I was thinking about Xela when I heard the hiss of the landing gear's pneumatic shocks engaging and the ramp lowering. Our cocky she-pilot unbuckled herself from the cockpit and came back to the hold to wish us well,

"This is where you get off," she said "I hope you enjoyed the ride, it was my pleasure to serve you gentlemen. Enjoy your stay in the most miserable metropolis in the Galaxy. I believe you already have my card, just give me a call when you need a ride." She smiled, sarcastically bowed, and scurried back to the cockpit. Hiska shouted a word of thanks to her backside while the rest of us checked our gear.

"All right, gents," I said, "Here's the plan: we're going to be incognito for this mission. Lieutenant Rhykis a crime lord with controlling interests on the fringes of Hutt Space named Cordolo Pirsig," Rhykis got all excited at the idea, "Pirsig is too important of a man to do his own talking, so I'm his Mouth, Miff Knopf. Larosz, you're Bolch, our Trandoshan muscle," he whispered a quick 'yes sir,' "And Hiska, you're playing Advan Eng, the wily assassin in Pirsig's hire," I watched Hiska's demeanor change instantly to suit his role, the clever little guy, "Our costumes are all here in this locker, courtesy of Intel," I kicked a footlocker along the wall of the derelict freighter, causing it to pop open, "Enjoy."

"I look frellin' ridiculous!" Rhykis cried after he put on his costume, a black top hat, white shirt, red vest and orange suit,

"You sure do, but it's the style among mob lords these days, so says Intel. It's not like you're trying to impress anyone anyway, Lieutenant, so just suck it up and act like a crime boss." I answered. The other two suited up without complaint. Larosz was just in a white muscle shirt, boots, and loose fitting black pants. Hiska had a very appropriate black duster and a neutrally-colored gray outfit.

As I stepped off the ramp and into the night air of the Smuggler's Moon, I was reminded of how much I love good, clean, Imperial space. The air was oppressive to breathe, the stench so powerful and repugnant. I could taste the stink of the place. All the combined odors of hundreds of millions of people in the levels below our landing pad assaulted my nostrils and I could see that the lads were affected similarly. If only we could be in full armor with helmets to filter the loathsome stench.

On the other hand, I decided as I walked to the end of the landing platform and looked out over the city, the view was quite nice. The flashing lights coming from the towers made the night as bright as day and created a friendly, civilized ambience. At least until you _looked_ at the lights, they were all advertisements for some kind of vice or another. I could see that Larosz wasn't too pleased with the atmosphere of sin that perpetrated the economy of Nar Shaddaa, as his scowl seemed even more displeased than usual. Rhykis, on the other hand, could probably spend a few weeks of leave here.

"All right, that's enough sightseeing boys, let's get moving. Remember, we're incognito, get into character and _stay there._ And Lieutenant, keep your mouth shut." I raised my hand and gave a march-forward signal.

Now Intel wasn't too clear on _exactly_ where this guy was supposed to be, they just gave us a sector of the planet to search that was a likely place for him to be garnering support for the Rebellion. This was a moon-city of several billion inhabitants, sometimes called "The Vertical City," we could've been searching that place for hours. However, Xela hooked us up with a little extra edge picked up on Hoth: his biosignature. The biosig wouldn't let us pinpoint him _exactly,_ but it gave us a 100-or-so block radius of searching. And at that point, it's just a matter of finding the right pub.

Our right pub was The Sickly Kowakian, a rather large establishment, by Nar Shaddan standards. Over the entryway was the pub's name in Nal-Huttese lettering (lucky I know the language, eh?) with a glowing holographic image of a Kowakian Monkey-Lizard downing some intoxicating beverage, then in the next frame being passed out from drunkenness, it was just the place to find a Rebel.

Just outside the door, I stopped the lads to get a plan of action, "Dey'Vega, do you know the Huttese language?" I pulled him aside and asked in a low voice,

"Absolutely, my Captain" He answered proudly in the tongue,

"Good lad. I want you to work the tables, try to find us a good informant. Take Sergeant Larosz with you," I turned to Rhykis and spoke in Basic, "You and I are going to work the bar," his face lit up, "And work it with sobriety, Lieutenant." He calmed down, "Okay, boys, go to work. Lieutenant, come with me."

This is where things get tricky, when the squad is not only in disguise and surrounded by hostiles, but it has also divided. I'd taken a tremendous risk, but one cannot expect great victories without great risk. Rhykis and I had lost sight of Dey'Vega and Larosz in the smoky haze of the pub by the time we approached the bar. Aliens of all kinds sat chatting on their barstools, some were just depressed-looking drunks drowning their miseries in liquor, and then there was the bartender, reaping the rewards of said miseries, a Dug wearing the nametag of 'Bekulna,'

"Yo! Tender!" I yelled to him in Huttese, snapping my right fingers. He hobbled over on his hands, his feet getting unpleasantly close to my face. His side of the bar was clearly raised so that a Dug's unusual way of walking wouldn't handicap his ability to see and serve the patrons on the other side,

"What can I get for you two?" He asked in a very sinister, crackly voice characteristic of most Dugs,

"We'd like two of whatever you've touched the least, please." I answered, looking disgustedly at his feet,

He grumbled, forced a chuckle, and then asked more forcefully, "Do you want a drink or do you want to get the Hell out of my bar?"

"Yeah, get us some Pure Water and make it quick, we've got important business to get to,"

"I'll bet you do, buddy," This Bekulna was exactly what I expected to find on Nar Shaddaa, an unscrupulous alien profiting off the vices of others, it was an impressive show of capitalism. Logically, he should be very willing to capitalize on others' need for secrecy,

As the Dug went about pouring the water (which didn't look very pure at all) with his feet, I dropped the important question, "Maybe you can give me a hand with this business, actually. We're looking for a human, a tough smuggler type. Average height for a human, about as tall as the boss here," I motioned to Rhykis, who wasn't really paying attention, he clearly doesn't know Huttese, "Blonde hair. He's probably been in here trying to pick up some extra hands for his crew. Recruiting and all that. You seen him?"

Bekulna placed the glasses on the bar in front of us, releasing his toes' grip on them, "Yeah, that guy, sure. He's in here pretty much every day. Name's Dash, I think, one of those stupid smuggler names that them Corellians take. I couldn't tell you where he goes after he's done in here though."

Rhykis grabbed his glass and downed it eagerly, I decided to just let mine settle for a bit, "Does he get many men joining up with him?"

The Dug cocked an eyebrow at me and chuckled, "Now I don't keep my eye on this guy all the time, but it's not usually _men_ he's taking out of the bar here. He might've signed on a few guys since he's been here, but Dash leaves here almost every night with one of the ladies. At least, that's who I'm serving drinks to, a human and a broad."

"We may have misjudged our opponent," I whispered to Rhykis, who nodded in reply, "Thank you very much, Mister Bekulna, you've been a great help." I put a nice tip on the table, which he greedily snatched up with his right foot before working the rest of the bar,

"So we get anything useful, Cap'n?" Asked Rhykis, sipping at his drink,

"Not anything groundbreaking. However, it seems our target may not be as dedicated to his mission as previously thought. The tender says he comes in here looking for ass more than recruiting Rebels. Not exactly the discovery of a lifetime, but it also means he's not on high alert,"

"That's cool, I guess," Rhykis looked up from his glass and pointed over my shoulder, "Here comes Dey'Vega and Larosz, they've got someone with 'em too."

"That's your cue to shut the frell up then, Lieutenant, or I should say Boss Pirsig."

The black Bothan was leading a very angry-looking Nikto (though, granted, I've never seen a friendly-looking Nikto) toward us, "Boss, Knopf, this is Gerdo, he says he knows where we can find our man." Dey'Vega's speech was perfect; he really is a chameleon in assuming new identities,

"Welcome, Gerdo, Boss Pirsig appreciates your help. What've you got for us?" I asked, standing up,

"I know where your Felth guy has been hanging out. I can take you right to him, too. But first, I've got to know what you want to do with the Human," He growled, standing at least two heads higher than me,

"He's been screwing up the Boss's business in the Fringe, we need to frell him up, teach him that we don't tolerate that." I answered, unintimidated with Larosz standing right behind him,

"I'll take you to him, but you're gonna have to do more than just frell him up, I need you to take him out. He's been ragging on Kamarilla the Hutt's girls, my boss, and she ain't gonna deal with it anymore. If you'll take him off our hands, I'll show you right to him." I nodded and offered the Nikto my hand, he took it, along with the generous bribe I placed there, "Boska." He said, commanding us to follow him.

Gerdo led us out of the bar to a turbolift. He pressed a button on the lift's control panel, causing it to rocket up at least fifteen levels in barely one second. We were now clearly in a residential area. Doors to cubicle apartments, barely five feet apart, lined the hallway; the filthy brown hallway lit only by a single florescent panel every ten doors. The Nikto brought us to a door numbered 1138, "This is it. He's in here. Have fun," he said grimly before heading back down the hallway to the lift.

"All right, lads, arm yourselves and get ready. Sergeant Larosz, you'll kick in the door, Dey'Vega will take point and clear the left, Rhykis has the right, I'll support." We prepared our E-11s and I gave the hand signal. Larosz roared and crashed his foot through the weak metal, ripping straight through it. The black Bothan rolled in, followed by Rhykis, crouching low,

"Freeze, Felth!" Dey'Vega ordered, aiming his carbine at the target, backed up by Larosz and Rhykis. I entered the tiny, 1-pane window room to examine the scene and, to be honest, I was rather surprised.

The Rebel was lying in a filthy stained bed with a Human woman clinging to him for safety. Oddly enough, he seemed to be keeping his cool, "Imps… great." He groaned,

"That's 'honorable soldiers of the Empire' to you, dirtbag!" commanded the Lieutenant. Well done, lad.

"Wait. How do you know we're with the Empire?" Asked Dey'Vega,

"In those getups? Yeah, that looks like Imperial Intel's work to me. Sure, you look like you belong on Nar Shaddaa… about three centuries ago. I've heard of retro, but you're ridiculous. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more important places to be." He got up and went to his closet, starting to dress himself,

"Freezzze!" Larosz roared, firing a warning shot at Felth's feet, the woman in his bed screamed,

"Fine, fine. I'm not going anywhere." The Rebel had put on his pants and slipped a shirt over himself. He reached back into the closet, "Nah, I'm just messin' with you, I'm getting the frell out of here!"

The Corellian produced a rocket pack from his closet and engaged it. The four of us opened fire, Rhykis got lucky and hit him in the kneecap, but he bolted out the window before anyone could nail him. We did, however, manage to turn the woman into a scorched stain on the bed's headboard. Bravo Squad had lost its target for now, but we still had a room to search for evidence.


End file.
